


Reconnect

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, post-Watershed, which explains only a few minor details, written before season 6 aired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was the thing about Richard Castle—no matter where they were, what was happening, or what state they were in, he could always, always take her breath away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconnect

She notices his red-rimmed eyes first. His pale pallor is too pale for her liking. But as bad as he looks, she feels ten times worse.

He, on the other hand, notices the look of hopelessness in her eyes. It makes him even sadder, to see something so dim in her normally bright, shining eyes. Her soft hazel has gone cloudy, and he hates that he’s the cause.

The circle of silver and gems is burning a hole in his pocket. He remembered she once said—before they were together—that proposals were supposed to be small, intimate.

Well, he thought, how much more intimate could you get? The both of them were raw, on the edge of breaking, and as he thinks about it, he wouldn’t have it any other way—it’s so very, very them.

They had taken so long, too long, to find their ways to each other. And after they had, everything had been great. Too great, he had thought earlier after their fight, that it was inevitable for it to come crashing down.

She considers briefly that this is the end. She doesn’t want it to be, not by a long shot. She had told him they were just getting started, and she had meant it. But running parallel in her mind to saving them is that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t meant to be at all.

Though every cell in her body told her differently, the idea lingered, stubborn.

She had no clue what to expect at the swings. She thought maybe the swings themselves were a good sign—but then again, maybe they were the worst omen possible.

To end where it all began, in a sense.

The simple playground accessories had meaning to her, to them, but how did that factor into their meeting?

They mutter simple words at each other. She’s only half listening to them, more focused on him, on his presence.

Just his presence makes her feel a thousand times better, and a thousand times worse. The realization makes the pain prick at her eyes.

While talking, they drink each other in, both thinking it could be the last time. She, because he won’t take her back after she lied to him. He, in case she says no and leaves him in her wake.

And then all at once, he knows it’s time.

She does, too, unconsciously, but doesn’t know why or what for.

Finally, he pulls out the ring—it’s beautiful, as simple as a man like Richard Castle will let it be, and so very, very perfect.

“Katharine Houghton Beckett,” he says, and her heart jumps twice before stopping altogether, Once, for the ring, and again, for her full name.

“…will you marry me?”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, but it comes damn near close. She can’t breathe.

That was the thing about Richard Castle—no matter where they were, what was happening, or what state they were in, he could always, always take her breath away.

Looking down at him, kneeling in the gravel, she wants to drop to the ground with him. Her finger itches, as is asking for the ring to be put in its rightful place.

But she can’t. Not until…well, not now.

She pulls his face to hers, much like she had on their first night. Forehead to forehead, she closes her eyes and hopes some sort of osmosis will explain to him exactly what she’s feeling.

On some level, it does.

He drops his hand, fingers clutching the ring in a death grip.

There are no words. Neither of them can come up with any.

Her fingers dance warily down his face, tracing his jaw and tilting up his chin. She presses their lips together, but they are not kissing. Her eyes open, a sort of mirror reflection of his.

This haze around them is all-enveloping, with no hope of escape. She thinks maybe, maybe they’ll just be trapped here, in this moment, forever.

It would be nice. But time keeps on moving, and he uses his free hand to envelop hers.

Still, no words.

This time, his lips crash down on hers, hard and pleading. She tilts forward a moment, off-balance, but his arms right her.

He rights her. He always has, and always will. Just as she has done for him, and will continue to do. They are each other’s checks and balances, each other’s touchstones.

Truly two halves of a whole.

A vision appears to her—a flurry of white, and kisses. A wedding, their wedding, perfect as it would be. The look of joy on his face when, a few months later, she tells him she’s carrying their child. Then she sees their child, their perfect little soul, with caramel hair and ice blue eyes. And the second one, with dark hair and marbled hazel eyes, staring up at her from her arms.

She sees it all, in one kiss. She always had, but until now, she never really believed.

She kisses him harder, oblivious to everything except his lips on hers and his hands and arms around her and this moment that will live on forever in her mind.

It’s then, she realizes, that she still hasn’t breathed.

So she pulls back, lungs grateful for intake of air. He does the same, inhaling for the first time in God knows how long.

Still, still, no words are spoken. They aren’t needed.

She stands, holds her hand out for his, helps lift him from the ground. His arms are around her again when he’s up, pulling her tight into his chest.

She pulls, too, and for a second he thinks they’ll merge into one being.

As if they weren’t one already.

She’s nodding against his chest, tears soaking into his shirt. She can feel the wet of his own tears in her hair.

He kisses the crown of her head, tracing her spine with his hand. The ring is still clutched in his other, biting at his palm with sharp edges. If he grips it any tighter, he might just draw blood.

She murmurs something against him, and he pulls back enough to let her pull her face away.

“Always,” she sobs. “Always, always, always.”

She repeats it, a mantra and an answer all wrapped together.

But he must finish it. It had stayed unfinished, but he couldn’t let it any longer.

“Always you,” he declares, and smiles as best he can through the tears—both his and hers.

She blinks, lets out another broken sob. “Put the damn ring on me, Castle,” she laughs wetly.

So he does.

\---

They make it home. Not just his home, but their home. She’d grown strangely comfortable in his loft in the months they’d been together.

They had both left their cars, not feeling ready to drive. They took a cab, the fingers of her left hand and his right weaving together. He continues to kiss the back of her hand, just below where her ring sits, so very fitting there on her finger.

And she can’t stop smiling.

As they get out of the cab, after they’ve paid, the older, black man calls after them “Congratulations,” like he knows exactly what’s happened.

Castle tips him extra. And she can’t stop smiling.

They ride up the elevator, blissfully content with the kiss of their palms and the rhythm of their hearts somehow beating in sync.

In the loft, he leads her to the kitchen and pours her a glass of wine. It mea2ns he has to let go of her hand, so she wraps her arms around his torso from behind.

They sit in his kitchen, drinking their wine, touching but not talking.

And she realizes it hasn’t really hit them yet.

They’re engaged. They’re getting married.

The wine is forgotten, both glasses half-full on the marble countertop.

She joins their hands again, gently pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. Their bedroom, she thinks, and she still can’t stop smiling.

Neither can he.

They undress each other slowly, savoring the moments in between. After every article of clothing falls, a small kiss.

Her ring never comes off.

They fall into the bed, already tangled together. She rakes her hands through his hair, his eyes staring at her intently.

“I love you,” she whispers, only for the second time. While it’s so very true, she hasn’t said it since the first time.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not his second, or his third, but his fourth time. Because he knew it before she did.

Long before she was willing to admit it.

Just like he knew about today, she thinks, about this.

She drops a kiss on his shoulder, the skin there wonderfully bare beneath her lips, and the muscles ripple in response.

He drags his nails softly down her back and she shivers.

She still hasn’t stopped smiling, and she doesn’t want to, nor does he want her to—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, her smiling so carefree and openly, and it’s all just for him.

“Kiss me, Castle,” she whispers.

So he does. Again and again.

\---

She’s tangled in the sheets but sitting upright, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her lower back is pressed against his abdomen, and he’s running his fingers up and down her spinal column slowly, pausing on each vertebra. 

“Did you take the job?” he asks, patient and gentle.

“No,” she murmurs. “I couldn’t.”

He nods.

“Rick, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the interview.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, not quite. It’s close, though. “It’s okay. I understand why you did it; I just wish you didn’t feel like you needed to hide it from me.”

“I was scared.”

“I was, too,” he admits.

She drops her chin to her kneecap. “I don’t think I could’ve taken it, anyway.”

“Why not?” he asks, and he really, truly wants to know.

“Too many things I don’t want to leave,” she says. “The boys, the precinct, Lanie, my dad, my mom…” She sighs, “Too many things I’m not willing to give up.”

His hand stops, reaches a little farther over to her waist and pulls her in. She relaxes out of her position and falls into him.

“I would’ve followed you,” he says. “Even though I was angry, I would’ve followed you all the way to D.C. and you’d never have been able to get rid of me.”

“I don’t want to,” she says, hand on his jaw. “Not ever.”

She kisses him, lips hard on his.

“Now, I suppose,” she whispers, “we’ll never get rid of each other.”

She lifts her left hand from the bed, and rubs the inside of the band with the pad of her thumb—it had an unfamiliar but comfortable weight on her hand, and he entrapped her wrist in his fingers.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“I do.” She smiles.

“Good,” he says. “Because I already have the other to match.”

And she laughs.


End file.
